His boots rapped along the wooden ties that lay across the gravel bed and were bolted to the sleepers. It was easy to ignore the hunger pangs, for he’d had plenty of practice in the camps, but his thirst was becoming more difficult to contain. He stopped, selected a small smooth pebble from the rail-bed and wiped it as clean as he could with the inside of his shirt. Tucking it between gum and cheek, he tasted the grit and dust, but the precious saliva was already soothing his parched mouth. It was an old survival trick and it wouldn’t work for long. But it would have to do until he reached the cookhouse at Wilga Station.

With the dust billowing round him, he could barely see more than a couple of feet ahead, and if he hadn’t looked up when he did he would have missed the unmistakable sight of an old army truck and three trailers parked at the side of the highway. This was a chance too good to miss, and he couldn’t afford to ignore it.

He stepped away from the rails and climbed the steep incline until he was several yards in front of the truck, but still hidden by the dust. It was facing north, the cab softly lit by the flickering of a kerosene lamp and the glow of two cigarettes. As the dust shifted and swirled he caught sight of the men in the driver’s cab and guessed they were probably jumpy enough without him suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

He thought about how best to approach the situation, and once he had a plan firmly set he spat out the pebble and reached into his shirt pocket. Pulling out his tobacco tin, he plucked out a cigarette he’d rolled earlier and took a few steps towards the truck. With the match cupped in his hands, he waited for their reaction as he let the flame glow on his face long after his smoke was lit.

Both men sat up and peered through the truck windscreen. The headlights were switched on and a window wound down. ‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ came a rough voice over the rumble of thunder.

He shielded his eyes from the blinding glare and took another tentative step towards the truck. ‘John Miller,’ he shouted – though that was not his name.

‘Get your arse in here, mate. This flaming dust is getting everywhere.’ The window was wound back up again, but the headlights stayed on.

He tugged his hat down and hitched the kitbag over his shoulder as he walked against the wind and the choking, sharp grains of dust that stung his face. He reached the truck and looked up at the grizzled face of the driver. ‘Jeez, am I glad to see you blokes!’